


Precipice

by Waifu_ckYou



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Episode VII: The Force Awakens (2015)
Genre: Angst, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Hurt No Comfort, Hurt/Comfort, I already wrote fluff now we need some pain, I'm not coming back to this lmao, I'm so sorry, Kylux - Freeform, M/M, One Shot, One sided, cause I like to hurt myself, honestly written in one go we'll see how that turns out, it was two am and I was full of feelings, unless there's some sort of demand this is now forever dead to me
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-17
Updated: 2016-04-17
Packaged: 2018-06-02 17:22:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 832
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6575239
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Waifu_ckYou/pseuds/Waifu_ckYou
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Kylo Ren spills his mind</p>
            </blockquote>





	Precipice

When he finally does say something it's not because he had any particular sort of plan- he's been working on that for months, this planning thing- nothing's quite worked out. When he finally says something it is out of necessity, for he feels the sutures in his heart are tearing the organ in two, pulling him apart. He feels the weight of the air enclosing around him, thickening into an anaerobic gelatinous mass.

It barely qualifies as coherent speech, a guttural sound from the back of his raw throat that was so accustomed to pouring out sighs and sounds of exertion, not words, and especially not the words he needed to speak. He whimpers blindly;

"Stay,"

And there is a pause and the air grows thicker, it slithers against his jaws and down his windpipe, it fills the space in his lungs and jostles them. The residual perspiration on his flushed skin freezes, beading down his spine. The silence ripens, painfully, as he watches the fire wreathed crown of the other man in abject terror.

He feels now as he did then, snow traded for sheets and cauterized wounds for stinging scratches and blood for drying sweat. The purple clash of volatile light and plasma does not as readily illuminate the fissures in his countenance, nor the quivering in his limbs and extremities. The fizzling agony of the bisecting sliver drawing over his brow and cheek does not stir, and the steady drilling drip of wet and heat does not spill down his side.

But it's all still the same.

Stripped of robes by way of burning away the cloth with his uncle's own blade or by way of pale, long fingered hands snatching and pulling at the folds. Hair tousled and plastered against his forehead by dissimilar activities with familiar repercussions. Mind frayed into multiple twists of rope, spills of thread and straw spiraling outwards from the savagely bound knot.

He is broken of his afflicted persona, the looming predator with blood soaked talons. He's no longer the blackened ember smoldering in the silence, no longer baring his teeth behind familiar metal. He is small and hollow, his bones like a bird's, his eyes dark and flickering and wet. His skin is pale as the snow, but burning.

"Stay," he says again, maybe louder. It is impossible to tell for the silence is weighing heavily on his ears, distorting the perception from the echo in his own skull. It is driving him mad, as he struggles to look upon the startling light that emanated from his target.

The Force tells him that he is at the disadvantage, aggressively unhelpful in supplying him with thicker, soupier doses of fear each time he extends his thoughts. He does not dare reach for the General, as he had refused to at battle with the Scavenger. He rests his proverbial fingers in the edge of the pool, watching the eddies carry projected powers back to him like ripples in the reflections.

He realizes far too late that his forefinger and thumb are pinched at the very edge of the General's sleeve, where the cufflink would be had they not been removed in an act of precaution. He presses so hard his blunt fingernails dig half moons into the fabric, effectively snagging the pressed cloth.

His vanity pains him, locked away in his rib cage and slamming against the bars, screaming at him to retreat. His pride hisses hateful things into his ears, stripping him bare and defenseless and so achingly vulnerable that it hurts to breathe, to exist in this moment.

But it's all still the same.

The General speaks just as Ren braves the metaphysical touch into his mind.

The General is clinical, sterile, crisp. The General is genuine, brutal, unrelenting. There is no hint, no lingering taste of any sort of emotion or passion. The General is unforgiving, and he is above all decisive in his prioritization.

Ren is awash, empty, full of so much void his stomach should burst. The wetness lining his lower eyelids crystallizes, crawls over the lashes like vines and ice.

His heart sputters in his chest, choked by the Force and his own torment as he struggles with the Generals words, mind stalling like some obsolete machinery forced into just the wrong place, stripped of useful parts and reduced to coincidentally perfect mosaic pieces.

He tastes the words on his tongue as clear and as cleanly as he tastes blood in the split of his lip, the press of leather against his inner cheek.

The General refuses, and slips out of Ren's quarters with more grace and perfection than a loving shadow.

Ren is silent. His heart shivers. More ice forming abstract patterns on his lashes. The heat fades from the indent beside Ren's quickly stagnating body, the one he carries like a corpse, the one he delivers in disgusting pilfered naivety.

His heart creaks. Ruptures.

Ren's throat and chest burn with the force of his strangled sobs.

**Author's Note:**

> haaaaahahhahaha I'm sorry. 
> 
> Honestly I was doing fine until I started digging through notbecauseofvictories's tumblr. Honestly they write so well and so beautifully you should 1000000% check them out of you haven't yet. 
> 
> Anyway yeah have this


End file.
